


Things Stiles Needs

by BroodingSoul



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 11:09:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1106101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BroodingSoul/pseuds/BroodingSoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has had a rough day and just wants to let go in a non-Stiles way, which is how he ends up on the dance floor of a bar with Derek Hale's hands on his hips.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things Stiles Needs

Stiles closes his eyes and stands still--no small feat on this crowded dance floor--and just feels the beat wash over him. 

Fuck, he needs this. 

The music is so loud he can't hear any words.  All he hears is a beat.  All he _feels_ is a beat.  The bass is turned up so high it burrows its way into Stiles body like osmosis, like he's absorbing it, until it feels like every cell in his body is vibrating into oblivion and just when it feel like he might fray at the seams, like if he doesn't move he will just evaporate into nothingness, he rolls his hips. 

And then he rolls them again again.  And then Stiles starts moving his entire body to the beat, in a way only Stiles could move. 

 _Fuck,_ he needs this. 

Stiles isn't usually the dancing type.  Stiles is usually the "sit at the bar and drink and twitch his hips in his seat while everyone else dances on the dance floor" type but today he had to work an hour later than normal, Scott ditched him for Allison, and the Jeep needs a new carburetor.  So for tonight, Stiles is the dancing type and fuck everyone else.  He walked into the club, downed a couple shots, and made his way to the floor as the buzz started to kick in. 

He's in the middle of the dance floor with his eyes closed and his body writhing to the beat and bodies are pressed in on him at all sides and it feels perfect.  The music drowns everything out.  He couldn't pick out a thought from his own head if he tried, and that's exactly what he wants.  By now his limbs are loose with tequila and his body feels flush and warm.  The beat _wub-wub-wubs_ and Stiles' body gyrates as he runs his hands through his hair.

He feels the crowd behind him part slightly and then a body presses up against him, a pair of hands grip his hips.  Normal Everyday Stiles would flail around to see who was touching him because the instance would be so novel he'd need to know who, what, when, where, and why.  Gotta Dance Right Now Stiles doesn't give a shit.  He arches his spine and throws his head back onto the stranger's shoulder.  He feels scruff against his cheek, smells a scent that's like the woods and ash and fresh air and whiskey and danger.  Everything in his head is on overload but he can feel the fingertips gripping his waist send their own sensory waves rushing down the line of his hips to his dick. 

Fuck, he needs _this_. 

One song seamlessly segues into another as hands roam over Stiles' body, his stomach, his chest.  Stiles' hands travels with the stranger's, grazing, gripping.  He holds on to strong forearms, reaches behind him and runs his fingers through coarse hair, over broad shoulders.  If Stiles feels correctly, the stranger's gotta be at least twice as wide as he is and, well, that's just perfect. 

Another segue and a new song.  A slow jam.  Less frenetic movement and more bump and grind.  Stiles turns around to face the stranger and instead finds Derek Hale. 

Stiles has watched Derek at this bar before.  Usually from across the room.  Like Stiles, Derek is not the dancing type.  He's the "sit in the corner and glower darkly at the dance floor" type.  Usually with whiskey.  Stiles knows because he hasn't just watched Derek at this bar before.  He's _watched_ Derek at this bar before.  He knows how long it takes Derek to finish that whiskey (seven minutes if he's sipping it).  He’s written equations to calculate the slope of Derek's jaw.  He’s tried to memorize the exact color of Derek’s eyes so he could mass produce it as paint and make a killing, because who wouldn't want a living room that was ice green?  Stiles _knows_ Derek is not the dancing type.

But maybe Derek is having a day, too.  Stiles isn't going to question it, because tequila and dubstep have silenced the part of his brain that usually makes him question everything. 

He throws his hands around Derek's neck.  Derek's hands ride low on Stiles' back, fingers brushing the line between the hem of his shirt and the waist of his pants.  Stiles closes his eyes and brings Derek closer, their foreheads resting on each other's, and even over the music they can hear each other breathing ragged breaths.  Derek's hand slips inside of Stiles' shirt and Stiles' breath hitches as Derek's fingers run up his spine, causing Stiles to roll his hips into Derek's and grind their cocks together. 

Stiles thinks he hears Derek growl, but he knows for sure he hears Derek ask, "My place?"  Stiles nods.  Derek leads them off the floor. 

They don't make it to Derek's place.  They don't even make it to Derek's car.  They make it to the alley outside the club.  That's where Stiles finds his back pressed up against cold brick and Derek's mouth pressed hungrily against his own.  It happens so fast Stiles can hardly breathe. 

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Stiles murmurs.  Derek stops, pulls back, green eyes blazing.  Stiles takes a couple of deep breaths, opens his mouth.  "Okay, I'm good."  He pulls Derek back into him, feels the burn of stubble on his chin, Derek's tongue slipping over his lips.  Stiles' hands are everywhere:  Derek's neck, his shoulders, his back--Jesus Christ, how broad is his back, it goes on for-fucking-ever--his waist, his ass.  Anywhere his arms can reach, Stiles feels up. 

Derek's fingers nimbly pop the button of Stiles' jeans, flick the zipper down.  Hands in new places.  Stiles groans, eyes closed at the pressure, gasps when Derek's thumb grazes over the head of his cock, already slick with pre-cum and desire.  Then the pressure is gone and Stiles thrusts his hips forward trying to find it again.  Instead he feels his jeans yanked down, his shirt up, and his body spun around in one swift motion.  Suddenly he's facing the wall, his cheek against the brick and even that feels amazing because Stiles' face is flushed and the brick is cold and he thought he might have caught fire at some point. 

Starting between his shoulder blades, Stiles feels the scrape of Derek's chin stubble slowly graze its way down and Stiles never thought of his entire spine as an erogenous zone but fuck, Stiles never thought he'd be half-naked in an alley with Derek Hale nearly crawling inside his skin, so what the hell does he know? 

The scruff stops just above the globes of Stiles’ ass and then he feels nothing.  Two seconds hang in the air, then three, four, and then Stiles feels Derek's tongue on him, a feeling Stiles could only describe as resplendent and transcendent and possibly life-altering.  His life will be split into two eras, the era before Derek rimmed him and the era after Derek rimmed him.  Maybe three eras, and the third is the era in which Derek is rimming him.  That is this era right now, and the part of Stiles’ brain that is cognizant hopes that a change is not gonna come. 

Derek's hands are on Stiles' hips again, some more, pulling Stiles' ass onto his tongue as much as he possibly can.  His fingertips dig into the line where Stiles' legs join his torso and _Jesus_ Stiles didn't know how good that could feel. 

Just as suddenly, Derek's tongue and hands are gone.  Stiles tries not to whimper--can't whimper, actually, because he's completely breathless--as he rests against the wall, his ass sticking out obscenely.  He hears a rustle, maybe a wrapper tearing, and before he can process that sound he's whipped around again so he's face to face with Derek.  A quick glance down reveals Derek's cock; perfect, glorious, possibly carved from marble by Michelangelo himself. 

Stiles offers a murmur of appreciation before Derek grabs him by the waist again and lifts him up--lifts him in the goddamn air--and pins him against the wall.  Instinct wraps Stiles' legs around Derek's torso as Derek wraps an arm around Stiles' lower back and grabs his own cock with the other before slowly settling Stiles on the tip of his cock. 

Stiles hisses as he is plied open, slowly.  Spit makes for horrible lube and even though the condom is lubricated--and ribbed, for Stiles' pleasure, like getting fucked against a wall by Derek fucking Hale isn't the Merriam-Webster definition of pleasure--Derek understands the need to Go Very Slow.  Stiles' hands gripping on Derek's shoulders and biceps can feel the tension as Derek works against gravity to keep Stiles from slamming down in one fell swoop. 

Stiles breathes down and he is no longer moving.  He is at rest, with every inch of Derek's cock inside him.  He opens his eyes and finds that Derek's gaze, normally steely, is glazed with lust.  Stiles flexes his ass around Derek.  Derek grunts, Stiles smiles.  He does it again.  Another grunt, another cocky smile.  Before he can flex a third time, Derek slowly start to piston his hips.  Stiles groans, Derek smirks.  He speeds up slightly, cock sliding out, then in.  Stiles groans, Derek smirks again. 

This calls for payback. 

Stiles wraps his arms around Derek's neck and pulls his torso close and begins to ride Derek like he's a jockey at the Kentucky Derby and Derek is his prize steed.  Derek responds by pressing all of his weight against Stiles, pinning him against the wall.  Somewhere in the heated sex craze Stiles' mind takes a moment to realize he's in between a cock and a hard place and he almost laughs, but the thought is quickly erased as Derek begins fucking him, literally fucking him in every sense of the word. 

The brick against his back is no longer smooth, the edges that meet the mortar scratching the middle of his back, but all Stiles can feel is Derek all around him and inside him.  Derek's cock sliding in and out, creating a friction that flirts on the edge of being too rough.  The head of Derek's cock, gliding over the bump of Stiles’ prostate, sending a jolt of pleasure through his body with each stroke.  Derek's mouth on him; stubble grazing his chin, his cheeks; teeth leaving small even grooves in the crook of his neck; tongue worrying his throat and raising a mark Stiles is going to have a helluva time explaining tomorrow, but that's for the Stiles of Tomorrow to worry about. 

Derek's rhythm becomes frenzied and if Stiles were aware of anything besides the barrage of Hale inside him, he'd wonder how Derek was still holding him against the wall.  Derek grunts and groans, rutting himself into Stiles at odd angles and varied intervals and just as Stiles is about to lose it Derek slams into him and roars.  Stiles can feel Derek's cock pulsing with his orgasm.  Derek's breath is rough and ragged in Stiles’ ear and Stiles doesn't even care that he didn't cum because he's going to go home and jerk off 1400 times this weekend thinking about this very moment. 

Derek slips out and Stiles finds his footing, legs shaky from being scissored around Derek's body.  He reaches for his jeans, wondering how Derek was able to pull them off over his sneakers without ripping them in half, but Derek bats Stiles’ hands away and drops to his knees.  Stiles doesn't have time to wonder what's about to happen before Derek engulfs his cock to the base and Stiles shouts so loudly from the sensation of warmth and wetness and suction that he's surprised no one comes running to turn the hose on them. 

Stiles has a brief five seconds feeling Derek's tongue lap down the shaft of his cock before he explodes.  He cums so hard he sees stars, blood rushing to his face, his own forearm shoved between his teeth to keep from screaming as Derek deepthroats Stiles' load out of him.  Stiles' vision goes black as the last pulse of pleasure courses through him and into Derek's mouth.  He slumps against the wall, slides down until he meets the ground, the concrete cold against his bare ass.  He opens his eyes and sees Derek leaning over him, hands against the wall, panting.  Stiles reaches up and pulls Derek's head down, tongue snaking out and tasting himself on Derek's lips. 

Footsteps passing the entrance of the alley send them scrambling.  Derek pulls him up and Stiles jams his sneakered feet into his jeans, trying not to fall over as he shoves one leg through, then the other.  No one comes down the alley, no one sees Derek Hale and the sheriff's son post-coital, and Stiles tosses up a prayer of thanks to whatever sex gods just prevented him from getting an indecent exposure charge from his own father. 

Breath finally even and bodies fully clothed, Stiles and Derek square off.  Adrenaline wearing off, Stiles feels the last surge of liquid courage coursing through his body. 

"Now what?" Stiles asks.  Derek arches an eyebrow. 

"My place?" Derek questions.  Stiles nods. 

This time they make it to Derek's car.


End file.
